Recently, we took a young Gujarati girl visiting Kolkata for the first time to lunch at a Bengali restaurant. A number of items on the menu featured the word muro ; and when it was explained to her that the term means fish head, she asked amazed, “Does any other cuisine feature fish head?”
Her query set me thinking: is it only we Bengalis who savour fish head? True, few other cultures bestow on it the iconic status it has for us: a potent symbol of fertility and prosperity, it’s an integral element of ritualistic meals, including the platter of symbolic foods with which the bride-to-be begins her wedding morning. It’s also considered brain food guaranteed to get the grey cells working. And, of course, the Bengali love for muro shows up in the many ways which we have invented to enjoy this part of the fish: cooked in dal, stir-fried with rice as muri-ghonto , adding delicious flavour to vegetables in a charchari .
However, feasting on fish head is by no means exclusive to Bengalis. And that should come as no surprise, given that this is one of the tastiest parts of the fish — succulent, flavour-rich and packed with good stuff like omega-3 fatty acids, vitamin A, iron, zinc and calcium. Study the recipes of a classic fish soup/stew from any part of the world — Provencal bouillabaisse, Spanish sopa de mariscos, Iceland’s fiskisupa, Peruvian parihuela — and you’ll find the vital component of the soup’s foundation, the fish stock, is fish head. That’s what gives the broth its signature flavour and nutritive value.
And a number of fish-loving communities have taken this further: crafting preparations where fish head is not just the soul of the dish but elevated to a starring role.
For years, I too assumed that relishing fish head was a “Bong thing”. That is, until grad school in New York. The on-campus apartment complex for graduate students was a global village. In summer, through open windows you could hear music spanning cultures and tastes: Bollywood to Bach; reggae to Rolling Stones; Latino to Chinese opera. And also wafting in the breeze the smell of spices and herbs from all over the world, as young people, far away from family and friends, tried to recreate a taste of the homes they’d left behind. Conversations were often about food — about dishes made by mothers and grandmothers that we yearned for.
In one such food-centric nostalgia session, I had described my mum’s muri ghonto — carp head broken into large pieces and sautéed in spices like turmeric and garam masala, then stir-fried with rice until the flat pieces of bone got soft enough to break easily, allowing you to suck out the delicious rich succulent bits inside. I was certain, I sighed, that fish head was something I was not going to be tasting till I returned home.
But I was wrong. Marie, a friend in theatre studies from Brazil with a rich ancestry blending Caribbean, Portuguese and Chinese, invited us to dinner cooked by her mum, who was visiting. The highlight of the meal was a Jamaican-style fish-head stew. And even today, I can recall perfectly how, as I tasted the first mouthful, the familiar and unfamiliar collided on my palate.
There was all the rich, succulent fishiness of fish head, as I knew it, and the combination of textures created by the complex structure of the fish head, so that with each mouthful you got a different blend of chewy and brittle, soft and crunchy.
But the flavours were completely new. For a start, the pieces of fish head had been heavily dredged in seasoned flour and then fried in large quantities of butter, lending batter-crisp, butter-bathed notes to the dish, which gave it a distinct identity. And then there was the sauce: a gravy infused with the heat of chilli, the slow-sweated sweetness of onions and red and yellow peppers, the sweet-sour stridency of ketchup, and the freshness of thyme used generously. Holding the stew together was the mellowing creaminess of coconut milk.
Midway through the meal, I jettisoned cutlery, and used my fingers, as I would at home; and, as Marie’s mother looked on with approval, I teased the delicious meat and glutinous bits from within the soft pieces of bone. In fact this was the one area in which the dish fell short for me: while the long, slow simmer had produced a thick, flavour-bursting sauce, most of the prized meaty bits and oil-rich skin of the head had melted away into the gravy. Still: it was a wonderful meal and discovery.
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It’s been decades since that memorable dinner and in this time I’ve sampled fish head in several iterations: Singapore fish head curry, its South Indian antecedents stridently announced by the profusion of chilli and curry leaves; Thai fish head curry cooked with small, plump eggplants, the combination of vegetables and fish head inevitably reminding me of Bengali charchari , distinctive Thai curry paste notwithstanding.
In Phnom Penh, at a dinner dedicated to showcasing Cambodia’s ethnic cuisines, Khmer fish head soup played a starring role in an elaborate spread. The popular snakehead fish had been used, its large head, oozing fat and gelid meatiness ensuring the dish was packed with flavour and texture. The base was a hot-and-sour broth, redolent with the fragrance of sweet basil and lemongrass, shot through with fermented fish paste. The crowning glory was the deep-yellow fish roe strewn like a broken string of tiny gold beads on the surface.
A common thread running through these occasions when I’ve enjoyed fish head emerging from the kitchens of another culture is the experience of a connection being created with my local host that overcomes differences of language and histories, and is based on the mutual recognition that we belong to that exclusive set of communities capable of relishing a delicacy that many other cuisines traditionally ignore or underrate.
Amongst some family and friends whom I asked about their experience of eating fish head, it struck a chord, reawakening pleasure-laced food memories. My sister-in-law, an incredible cook and adventurous gourmet, hails from the Netherlands. She spoke evocatively about kibbeling, a beloved Dutch snack made by deep-frying cod cheek in seasoned batter. It’s a treat, she said, especially in winter when, “after a chilly but invigorating strandwandeling (beach walk), you indulge yourself with a portion of hot, golden-crisp kibbeling and portie patat (French fries) dunked in mayonnaise, sold by beachfront vendors.”
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A friend who has travelled to China several times, described one of her favourite food memories of the country. In Kumming, she visited a pebble-beached lake, deep in the countryside. The lake was teeming with fish and simple but pretty eateries nearby served fresh catch. She narrated how a carp-like fish was steamed for them with Chinese greens. As they ate the delicately flavoured, flaky flesh, the whole fish head and carcass was gently bubbling in a pot on the side. The meal ended with this flavour-intense soup. “We kept replenishing our bowls, picking out bits of the slowly disintegrating fish head, till we were replete,” she recalled.
It’s only recently that I’ve begun cooking fish head. I’ve discovered that as long as you follow a few watchpoints, working the head is no more difficult than dealing with any other part of the fish. The head should be large — carp (ruhi or rohu/katla) is excellent because the head is big and well-endowed with fatty, fleshy parts. Of course, it needs to be really fresh. Ask the fish seller to break it into two or four pieces and clean it properly.
After tinkering with a few standard recipes I came up with something that I feel balances taste and texture, richness with freshness. You can try it, but feel free to innovate and adapt. The important thing — especially if you enjoy fish — is to get over one’s squeamishness and discover what renowned British chef Rick Stein did when he visited Malaysia, where fish head curry appears in a number of mouth-watering versions: most of us discard the fish head; but it’s the best part of the fish.
Fish head soup (serves 4)
Ingredients
1 large fish head cut into big chunks and cleaned
4 cups water
2 heaped tbsp minced lemongrass
Big pinch turmeric powder
Pinch of salt
2 tsp minced garlic
2-inch piece minced galangal (or local aam aada)
1 tbsp tamarind paste dissolved in hot water
2 tsp sugar
5 or 6 red chillies, sliced
1 cup thin coconut milk
1 tbsp (or more to taste) fish sauce
2 tbsp roasted sesame oil
Garnish: Mint leaves, chopped spring onion, fried fish eggs (optional)
Method
1. Smear fish head pieces with turmeric and salt. In a heavy-based pot, heat cooking oil and fry the garlic and chillies. Add fish head and keep moving around till browning.
2. Pour in water, add galangal, lemongrass, tamarind paste, sugar and bring to slow simmer. Cover and cook till fish head is cooked through and the bones begin to turn tender.
3. Add coconut milk and simmer for a few more minutes. Turn off heat. Add sesame oil and fish sauce. Taste and make necessary adjustments.
4. Garnish with mint leaves, spring onion and fish eggs. Best had with rice.
Arundhati Rayis a food writer based in Kolkata